


Serendipity

by queenofthefallenfics



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5+1 Things, Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Dwalin Is A Softie, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecurity, Interspecies Relationship(s), Jealous Dwalin (Tolkien), Love Confessions, Mild Sexual Content, Miscommunication, Oblivious, Worldbuilding, no beta we die like men, then not so accidental relationship!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29480106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthefallenfics/pseuds/queenofthefallenfics
Summary: Serendipity: n. the chance occurrence of events happening in a beneficial way.or, five times Dwalin and Eira come across one another by accident and one time they met up.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s), Fíli (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s) (mentioned), Glóin/Glóin's Wife, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies) (mentioned)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. Laketown

**Author's Note:**

> Bold is Khuzdul because I'm lazy and really would have no idea how to go about translating it, sorry.

Dwalin sat on a chair in front of the dying fire, thinking over the plan to get to Erebor. They would spend the night at the Bargeman’s house to make sure everyone was a bit stronger before leaving the next night to get proper weapons. Then, they would defeat Smaug and take back their home. He stared into the fire, ignoring his brother’s advice to get some rest. He just grunted in reply, more focused on figuring out how they were to get the weapons they needed to defeat Smaug. Those shoddy pieces of schist wouldn’t suffice, no matter what that lippy Lakeman thought.

“Excuse me, sirs, do you need anything?”

The fire painted dark shadows under the eyes of the Lakeman’s oldest, Sigrid, even though she wore a pleasant enough smile for them.

“We’re fine, lass—”

A knock cut them off, everyone stiffening as Sigrid looked to the door with wide eyes. Her father must have heard it, because the Man blew into the room, his stern face tight with worry. Sigrid stood back, hands fisted in her apron, and her eyes danced between the door and Dwalin, his cousins, the princes, and his brother. Bard took a breath and opened the door open a smidge, leaving only the smallest gap for someone to look through.

“‘Evening, Bard,” an unfamiliar voice (high, female, slightly slurred) greeted. “Sigrid around?”

“Aye, come in, come in,” he said, shutting the door soundly behind her.

As a girl came into view, she seemed plain in every way but one. While her height and her clothes and her shoes would never set her apart from any of the other Lakemen, the short cape and massive hood she wore was worthy of a second look. It was also odd that she didn’t spare Dwalin or his kin a second glance, she just walked past them to the bench and sat down, laying her forehead on the table with a sigh.

Bard caught their suspicious looks and assured them, “Eira will not say a word to the guards or the Master.”

“Aye,” the girl, this _Eira_ , agreed, voice muffled by the table, “I have never given a whit what my father wants me to do. Why start now?”

“Your father is the Master?” Thorin questioned, taking a step forward, not hiding anymore after the girl threw out their fears of being found.

“Hardly,” Eira said. With a sigh, she stood up again, the candle doing nothing to light the face under the cloak as she looked down at them. “I am Eira, daughter of Braga, captain of the Master’s guards. And you are those dwarves he swears made the mess in the market. Now that we have introduced each other, Master Dwarf, and we know that neither of us is of value to the other, may I spend the evening with my friend, uninterrupted? I did not come here for small talk.”

Dwalin glared at the girl—it seemed rude attitudes were common on the Lake, a stark contrast to how Thorin should be treated. He was a king and crowned or not, he was deserving of the same respect that other Dwarf Lords received. If some fishing peasant couldn't understand that, well . . . she didn't need to. She just needed to know how to behave around kings, around Thorin.

But her short temper seemed to be unusual, given the looks the Bargeman and his daughter were giving each other. _Perhaps she truly was part of some plot to—_

“Eira,” Sigrid said slowly, “why are you here?”

Eira made a noise of irritation. “I came to visit my friend,” she said, echoing herself with stubborn resolve. “But you’re busy, Sigrid, so I’ll see you another night.” The girl turned to leave, but when Bard laid a heavy hand on the girl’s shoulder, she flinched so hard, her hood fell off and both of the Men gasped. And while Dwalin and his kin didn’t gasp, they were shocked at the sight before them.

Eira’s blonde hair tumbled down her back, shining in the firelight, a harsh difference to the dull pallor of her face. But it was nothing compared to the dull purple bruise that covered her jaw, a fat clot of blood that made her lip swell out. When she turned around to glare at the Men, it was somewhat negated by the fact that one of her eyes was blackened. It was the same shade of purple as the ring of bruises around her neck. Somehow the purple on one eye make the brown of the other fascinating.

“ _Oh, Eira_ ,” Sigrid said, her voice weak and full of sympathy. “What happened?”

“I slipped and fell. It’s a bit icy out there if you haven’t noticed.”

Not a single Man or Dwarf was the least bit convinced by what the girl said; Mahal’s balls—neither was the girl, her voice flat and apathetic as she lifted her chin. She winced and lowered it back again, hand reaching up to rub at her throat for a moment before letting it fall to her side, her face now an ugly mottled red and purple mess. 

Sigrid rolled her eyes, reaching forward to carefully grab Eira’s sleeve. “Come downstairs,” she said, “I’ll help you out and see if we can't make you less clumsy.” Eira just sighed and allowed herself to be dragged away. From the look on her face, Sigrid's care was a common thing . . . which meant her injuries were common as well.

 _Men_.

“Eira.” Bard interrupted them and Dwalin could see the obvious guilt on his face. “This is my fault. I’m sorry. I mentioned your mother to Braga, I shouldn’t have.”

But Eira just laughed and shrugged, then hissed as it agitated her shoulder. “Again, could not give a whit. My father was just looking for an excuse and it’s not like my mother’s in the right state to refute you or him. Save your guilt for the fish, Bard.” With that, she let herself be dragged down the stairs to the poor washroom they had, Sigrid chattering away in her ear.

“ **Wait** ,” Kili asked in Khuzdul, his voice low as he scratched his head. “ **Did Eira’s father do that to her**?”

“ **Aye, it seems that way, laddie** ,” Balin said. Dwalin made a noise of disgust, echoed by Thorin and Gloin. “ **Now, now, that’s enough of that. What the Lakemen do is their own business. We’re here for rest and to get weapons to defeat Smaug, that’s all**.”

Dwalin hated that he would have to turn his back on something so abhorrent, but he could see the sense in what his brother was saying. After all, they weren’t here to play Valar, they were here to reclaim Erebor. That was the only priority they had. It was the only one they could have.

“ **Ki, let’s go to sleep** ,” Fili said, letting his brother lean on him as they walked to the bedroom Bard hastily put together for the Company. Most had to sleep on the floor, but after weeks on the odd stone-wood of the Mirkwood prisons, a familiarly wooden floor felt like the Halls.

“ **Good idea, Fili** ,” Balin agreed. “ **I think it’s time to rest these old bones, lads**.”

“ **Aye** ,” Gloin nodded. “ **Smart idea, cousin**.”

The others left until it was just him and Thorin; Thorin was staring into the fire and Dwalin couldn’t get the sight of the beaten girl out of his head. There was something wrong about it, about the bruises and blood. Children shouldn’t be like that, not even in the worst of towns in the worst of places. But there were children like that, here, in this miserable Laketown. And Dwalin couldn’t help how his surprise ebbed away into deep revulsion at those Men.

“ **Will you stay up, cousin**?” 

Dwalin scoffed and looked at Thorin, who was surveying him with a tense expression. “ **Aye, Thorin. As if I was going to sleep around that lippy Lakeman**.”

Thorin didn’t laugh, however, he just nodded and walked away, following the last of their kin into the room they were sharing. Dwalin watched his cousin, his shield-brother, his king, retreat and for a moment was worried.

He wasn’t worried about the mountain or the gold; rather, he was worried about the dragon that was waiting for them.

He knew that Thorin was strong enough to resist the lure of the gold, but he wasn’t so certain his king would be able to withstand a dragon. A familiar flame of anger reared its head as he thought of how the Council thought Thorin was unworthy and how they _refused_ to send aid until Thorin found the Arkenstone again. It wasn’t the Arkenstone that made someone a king—Thror was a fool for thinking so. That the Council continued to ignore the fact that Thorin didn’t need some gemstone to validate his claim was a disgrace. He was no diplomat or seneschal, but one didn’t need to be to understand that the Council turning its back on Thorin was a damned—

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

Dwalin slid lower in his chair, hoping neither of the Men saw him. Not because he was worried about their reaction to him being there, but rather that he didn’t want to speak with them.

“I’ll be fine, Sigrid, don’t worry. You oughta be more concerned about your guests, my friend.” There was a pause then Eira added, “Get that look off your face, I’m not about to tell my father. I’m just . . . worried about you.”

“You should be more worried about yourself, I mean, look at what your father—”

A frustrated groan interrupted the Bargeman’s daughter and Dwalin saw weak shadows moving towards the door, the footsteps all but silent.

“Sigrid, please,” Eira said, “don’t talk about my father to me. Okay? I just have two more years, then, everything will be fine.”

“But—but what if you don’t last those two years?” Sigrid’s voice was small but careful. In that moment, even Dwalin could sense the love between these two girls—sisters in every way but one.

“I will,” Eira said. Her tone booked no doubt, no hesitation. It was smooth as water and harder than marble. “I have to go back home now, Clara’ll be wondering where I am. Stay safe, Sigrid.”

Clothes rustled, a door shut quietly, and then Sigrid said, “You too.”


	2. Battlefield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more like the book!battle than the movie!battle because having Eira at Ravenhill was a bit too convenient, even for me, haha.
> 
> Also, Khuzdul is in bold again. Same reason.

Dwalin was finally in his element. After weeks and weeks of traveling with most of their fights being only skirmishes, for Dwalin to finally be in a battle . . . his blood was singing.

He had the best Ereborean steel to swing and light armor to protect him, his King was at his back and his brother was at his side. Since he and the Company joined the battle, he felt the tide shift; the goblins and orcs they were beating felt the tide shift; the elves, Men, and Dain’s forces all felt the tide shift. Even the orcs must have felt that way, since the great white prick Azog left his perch upon Ravenhill and came down to the battlefield to face Thorin himself. And provide Thorin with the opportunity to cut the ugly bastard’s face right off.

Hopefully.

Because somehow, Thorin had pushed ahead without Dwalin, disappearing into the filth by himself.

If this was an ordinary battle, Dwalin wouldn’t spare a thought. It was war, sometimes you lost your shield-brother, it happened. But this wasn’t ordinary in the slightest. And Dwalin needed to get to Thorin’s side, to protect Thorin's side.

“Behind you!”

Dwalin swung his axe behind him, cutting a goblin’s head clean off.

“Nice swing, Master Dwarf,” a Man said, blonde hair flying in a circle around their helm. “It seems the elves aren’t the only ones with eyes on the back of their heads.”

Dwalin snarled and stepped to the side, letting the Man parry, block, then cut open an orc’s stomach. A step forward brought them side-by-side and Dwalin recognized the bruise on the Man’s chin—or rather, the woman’s chin. It was Eira, the girl who visited Bard’s house when they were in Laketown. But now she wore the thin armor the Men must have found in the cellars of Dale instead of her short cloak and hood.

“What are you doing here, girl?” Dwalin asked, cutting an orc down, kicking its body towards the others.

“Saving your ass,” Eira snapped, catching a blade headed for Dwalin’s head on her rounded shield. “Or would you like me to leave you for dead and help someone else?”

“That’s a Rohirrim shield,” Dwalin said. He cut a goblin in half, then continued spinning, slicing an orc at an angle. “Where did you get it?”

Eira raised her shield and two arrows slammed into them, not her head. She shoved aside an orc and stabbed it quickly, black blood spraying her face when she pulled her sword out. Dwalin pushed forward, trying to keep pace. It was likely that this was Eira’s first time in a battle, but Dwalin was impressed with how she handled herself. She wasn’t scared whitless like many soldiers would be; she kept moving forward, staying on the balls of her feet, and ever aware of the enemies surrounding them.

“Lass,” Dwalin yelled above the din of war, “do you see Thorin anywhere?”

Eira parried a blade and kicked a goblin in its chest then stopped for a moment, peering through the other fighters and monsters. “He’s there!” She pointed to their right and Dwalin cut off the hand of a goblin that was outstretched with a jagged dagger aimed for Eira’s hand. “Do you need help getting there?”

Dwalin didn’t have to reply, he just cut down two goblins blocking their path to Thorin. Eira, however, seemed surprised, but flashed him a bright, toothy smile and stepped ahead of him to catch an axe on her shield, then pushed it forward, catching the orc off-guard and slicing him across the face. Dwalin moved in front of her and the two of them started a bloody duet to get to Thorin.

It was the first time that Dwalin had truly fought beside a Man before and he didn’t know how to feel.

During the Lost Years, he did guard caravans of Men and Dwarrow, but the small skirmishes that he encountered were vastly different to what he and Eira were doing. Those were quick and targeted. There were never so many that he ever felt overwhelmed, even for a moment. This battle, this war, was different. Dwalin knew that with every goblin he cut down, with every orc that Eira killed, another two would replace it. Even working together, the three peoples of the North were outnumbered by the foul creatures that Azog brought.

And with every second that passed, Thorin was most likely facing down Azog with Mahal knows who, although, probably no one. (Thorin was stone-headed that way.)

“Master Dwarf!” Eira shouted, slamming her shield against another orc’s shield, teeth bared as she tried to crush the orc. “King Thorin is just on the other side of these three!”

That was all Dwalin needed.

Without a care for himself or Eira, Dwalin cut through the last of the orcs separating him from his king and burst onto the scene, just in time to knock an arrow aimed for Kili from it’s path. Kili, who gave him a nod of gratitude, went back to watching his brother’s back, the two of them stopping a horde of goblins from intervening on Thorin and Azog’s duel.

More like: Thorin and Azog and _Dwalin’s_ duel, because he’d be damned before letting Thorin face the white bastard by himself.

And, given the blatant relief on Thorin’s face, he felt the same. Dwalin just bared his teeth in a snarl of a smile and he fought at his king’s side, the two of them forcing Azog back with cut after block after slice after parry. Every step Dwalin took was mimicked by Thorin and mirrored by Azog. They worked together and Dwalin swung his axe with enough confidence, enough ferocity, that even Azog was fighting them with narrowed eyes and labored breath.

“Thorin!”

With a single shout, Dwalin and Thorin’s concentration was wrecked.

Dwalin, covering him, watched as Thorin turned around, eyes wide, and spotted Bilbo, mithril gleaming under a bloodied coat. Dwalin stepped up as Thorin left to stand beside Bilbo, the two of them forcing a moment of peace in this battle. Azog tried to pursue, but a familiar scarred shield bounced off of the side of Azog’s head and then flew back into Eira’s hand.

Dwalin took a moment, with Azog, to try and comprehend what happened, but when Eira shouted, “Blah!” at the Pale Orc, Dwalin roared with battle-laugh and swung his axes again.

“Where’s your king off to?” Eira asked, fighting alongside him, once again. “You two nearly had him.”

“Thorin likes to think that battlefield reconciliations are romantic,” Dwalin grunted. “He’s a damn fool.”

Azog landed a hit on Eira and she hissed, his twisted morningstar catching the girl on her left cheek, the blood staining her leathers, her shield, her arm. Azog snarled something in his foul speech, but Eira didn’t listen to him. Instead, with Dwalin watching in awe, when Azog spun around to try and strike her down once more, Eira was waiting for him and, in one stroke, she cut off his other hand.

“Try to mar my face now, you foul beast!”

A part of Dwalin, the one that taught scores of guards, wanted to scold her for bothering to taunt the enemy but another part of him, wanted to laugh at the smug expression that was covered in battle filth and blood on the girl's face.

Azog snarled and fell back, Eira stepped forward to deal with whatever lieutenants Azog had as he screamed and cried just like he did at Khazad-dum all those decades ago. She met every challenger with a harsh cut or strong block and a smile, as if she was shining with battlelust, the weak sunlight illuminating the fire in her brown eyes.

A hand clapped on his shoulder made him swing an axe. Thorin’s blade caught it with a raised brow. “I need you to take Bilbo to safety as I finish off Azog,” Thorin asked him.

“Thorin, no!”

Both Dwalin and Bilbo looked at each other, but Dwalin rallied first. “You cannot defeat Azog on your own! Let the boys—”

“No!”

A body was blocking out the light and Dwalin looked to see Eria holding her shield above her head, over him, Thorin, and Bilbo, stopping Azog from cutting them down with his other—only—hand. Azog bellowed, his fury echoing across the battlefield. He slammed his bladed hand down on the shield again and Eira buckled under the weight, falling to one knee and dropping her sword to hold up the shield. Azog roared and slammed his blade on the shield a third time. It was with that hit that Eira’s shield finally broke and she fell down. She was stunned for a moment, then leapt into action, reaching for her sword. Azog, bloodlust gleaming in his eyes, swung his blade down one last time and caught Eira on the head and shoulder.

Eira fell to the ground, utterly still and covered in a deadly amount of blood.

Dwalin was there, blocking both Thorin and Eira’s body. 

“ **Fili, Kili, get the girl and burglar off the battlefield**!”

The Khuzdul caught the princes’ attention as Dwalin stood before her, his axes stopping anyone from harming her. Thorin pushed forward, standing beside Dwalin as Kili reached Eira to bring her to safety as Fili and Bilbo cut their way through the orcs and goblins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than I wanted but 1) we all know what happens in the battle in canon and not much changes (besides the obvious, lmao) and 2) I am really bad at writing fight scenes.
> 
> Also, Eira copies two moves from the MCU. Brownie points to whoever sees them!
> 
> Also, also, the next update will be Friday morning EST, but I don't have an exact time (sorry!) since idk how that morning is gonna go for me just yet, haha. The next update will also be pretty long! Like 9 pages on google docs, so get ready!!


	3. Healing Tents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a long chapter! It's almost the size of the other two combined, I think? So hopefully, that means it's good, haha.

In the days that followed, Dwalin watched Thorin’s back as he sat through meeting after meeting with Dain, Thranduil, and Bard, each of the lords trying to work together to figure out a way to shelter for the upcoming winter. Ereborean winters had not gotten any warmer in the years they’d been away and Dale wasn’t hospitable in the slightest. Erebor’s structural integrity was unknown until Bofur, Bifur, and three of Dain’s men gave their report at the end of the week.

And if Dwalin wasn’t sitting in on meetings or making the rounds with other guardsmen from the Iron Hills or stopping the princes from causing chaos, Dwalin was sharing a tent with his brother and cousins, trying to get some rest before running off to do something else.

It was in one of those even rarer moments that it was just Dwalin and Oin in the tent. The four cousins were some of the busier dwarves: Gloin was running around trying to figure out payment for the Men and elves; Balin was seneschal to the King and needed to sit in all the official meetings, plus most of the unofficial ones; and Oin and some elf ponce were in charge of all the injured. They were running themselves ragged and the only bright spot was that Gloin’s ridiculous snoring never woke them up anymore they were so tired.

So when Dwalin stumbled in and fell on his cot, Oin just grunted from his position face-up on his. They didn’t need to speak, there was no need to, they just both laid there, each trying to rest for a few moments before they had to run off to do something else.

“Oin, are you in here?”

Dwalin and Oin both groaned as Bilbo raced in, each of them forcing themselves to look at the other and Dwalin watched as Oin forced himself to sit up. “What do you want, Bilbo?” Oin grumbled, reaching for his trumpet.

“Eira’s waking up!” Bilbo exclaimed, practically bouncing on his toes. “Iachon said he needed—”

“Ach, that’s enough, laddie,” Oin interrupted, getting to his feet with surprising speed. He threw on his coat and kicked Dwalin’s cot. “Get up, you oaf, I need you to carry the chest.”

But Dwalin was already getting up. He hadn’t heard much of the girl besides the fact that she was unlikely to pull through, even after the Healers had worked on her for a good few hours. But that didn’t sit right with Dwalin—he believed her actions were essential to the death of Azog, as did the rest of the Company and most of the others who heard about what happened. For Eira to hover on between life and death seemed like a gross injustice for all that she had done. She should have walked away, perfectly fine, from the battle, without even a drop of blood on her—her’s or otherwise. But instead . . . 

He reached over and grabbed the chest, filled with new energy as he followed the other two through a maze of tents and people until they arrived at a small, rather dingy looking, tent, a few other Men, including some of Bard’s children, waiting outside. Oin pushed his way inside the tent and when Dwalin followed, the small tent got even smaller.

In the tent, were two elves, Bilbo, Oin and himself, a young girl, and Eira. Eira had her hair cropped short, the blonde strands barely reaching past her chin, but what was most startling was the white bandages that wrapped around her head, cheek, and . . . her left eye. The young girl was holding onto Eira’s hand and Dwalin figured they must be related. Or that Eira was unaware the girl was about to cut off all blood flow to her hand. Either way, when Eira noticed Oin, the girl did too and burst into a wide smile at the sight of the old healer.

“Master Oin, Master Oin! Eira’s awake!”

“Aye, lassie, I can see that,” Oin said. “I’m—”

“Excuse me, Master Dw—Oin, Master Oin,” Eira interrupted. “Clara, darling, could you do me a favor and find me some tea? My throat feels awfully sore.”

For a moment, it seemed like Clara wouldn’t leave her side, but Bilbo stepped forward. “Come on, Miss Clara, I have a lovely blend I think your sister will enjoy,” he offered.

Clara sighed and nodded. “I’ll be right back, Eira, don’t worry!”

Clara kissed Eira’s cheek and took Bilbo’s hand. Eira flashed Bilbo a grateful look and mouthed  _ Ten minutes _ , wincing slightly, but smiled when Bilbo nodded.

“Alright, lass, let’s take a look at that shoulder of yours,” Oin said, opening the box Dwalin held to take out a pair of scissors and a roll of new bandages. “Have either of you checked it?” he asked the elves.

“Not yet, Oin,” the dark-haired one said. “We sent Master Baggins for you when she awoke and just spoke to her in the meantime.”

Oin grunted and with the assistance of the ruddy-haired elf, began to unwrap the bandages. Under them all, thick stitches held together most of Eira’s shoulder and arm. They looked wildly out of place and when Eira looked down, she stifled a gasp and turned her head, staring at the wall with gleaming eyes.

“My lady,” the ruddy-haired elf said, “my name is Rossendes. Can you look at me.”

Eira took a breath and met her eyes. “Yes, Healer Rossendes.”

“Just Rossendes will do, my lady,” she said. “I need to know—can you move your fingers?”

Eira followed their gaze to look down at her own hand. Pressing her lips together, she managed to curl her hand into a fist. She unclenched with a loud huff and gasped as if she had run a mile. Then, without being prompted, Eira curled her hand again and raised it slightly.

“My lady—” The other elf, this Iachon fellow, tried to speak but was interrupted by Eira.

“I got this,” she snapped out, glaring at her hand instead of the elf.

“Lass, if you push yourself too hard now, you’ll throw off the healing cycle,” Oin critiqued.

Her hand hovered, shaking noticeably, then was lowered, or more accurately  _ fell _ , back to the bed. “What do you mean healing cycle?” she asked, eye wide and face a shade paler than what it was. “I’m going to be—I’m fine!” The three healers looked at each other and Eira repeated, “I’m going to be fine. R-right?”

“We’ll see,” Rossendes said, giving her a placating smile.

“Let’s check that head of yours next, lass,” Oin said, not bothering with a smile. Dwalin was glad; he knew from past experience, it would only unsettle the wounded, rather than comfort. “We’re going to need you to stay still while we do this, aye?”

“Ok.”

The whole tent seemed to hold its breath as Rossendes and Oin unwrapped the bandages, careful not to move too much between them. Eira looked straight ahead and seemed to finally notice Dwalin. He saw her eyes widen in surprise then she waved a hand awkwardly, trying not to move too much. Dwalin couldn’t help the amused smile that flickered on his face for a moment as he nodded in return. The last of the bandages finally came off and Dwalin could see the small, tight elven stitches on her forehead and cheek, the thread a silver color that shone in the poor light. To Dwalin’s somewhat untrained eye, it seemed as if there wouldn’t be any serious scarring.

Unlike her eye, which was covered in another bandage, plastered to her eye.

“I—” Eira cut herself off, biting her lip. “Is there a mirror?”

Oin gestured to Dwalin and Dwalin looked in the chest to see a small mirror, the right size to fit in the woman’s palm. Dwalin brought the mirror to Eira and nodded again, returning her smile once more.

Eira took a breath and lifted it with her good arm, the worry fading into shock at the sight of her many stitches and covered eye.

“We do not believe the stitches will leave much of a scar, my lady,” Rossendes said, placing a hand on her uninjured shoulder.

“And my eye?” Eira snapped. “What about—Can I see my eye? Please?”

The three Healers all shared a look then Oin, gentler than Dwalin had ever seen, carefully peeled off the plaster, revealing a line of heavy stitching, holding together her eyelids. It was nothing like the pretty stitches of the elves—these were the stitches of a dwarven warrior.

When the plaster was off and Eira didn’t burst into happy song at the fact that she could see. Instead, she turned paler than Balin’s beard and swallowed so hard, so loud, even Dwalin could hear it. She closed her one good eye and a tear leaked out. When she opened it, Eira was already lifting the mirror, determined to push herself mentally, emotionally, if not physically. She had just barely caught sight of the stitched socket when she choked and let the mirror fall from her fingers. A cold breeze rattled the tent but Eira sat there, still as a statue and as pale as marble.

Eira didn’t reach for the mirror again, instead she brought her hand up and, just before she touched the scar, Iachon said, “Please don’t touch it, my lady.”

Eira hand curled into a small fist and Dwalin, for a moment, wondered how something so small, so delicate looking could have held a blade that stood against Azog the Defiler when so many others had fallen.

“Now, now, Miss Clara, maybe some of the others want tea as well.”

Bilbo’s voice rang through the tent and Eira’s fist dropped to her lap, her eye wide with panic. “I—she—please—”

“Aye, lass, just hold tight,” Oin said, knowing what she needed.

Dwalin shoved his chest into Iachon’s hand and turned away, walking to the front of the tent. There was the quietest gasp behind him, so quiet that Dwalin was certain he imagined it. He stepped outside and walked over to the little girl, Clara.

“Are you Eira’s sister?” he asked.

“Yes, Mister Dwarf,” she said, looking up at him with wide, serious brown eyes that were the exact shade of Eira’s.

“Okay. May I have some tea, Clara, daughter of Braga,” Dwalin asked.

Clara looked down at the ground, her ears bright pink. “Okay, but, I mean, Eira wanted some tea, too, so maybe you should wait until—”

“Clara!” Bard’s youngest gasped and then bounced over to whisper in her ear. Dwalin watched the two young girls whisper back and forth as Clara’s hands tightened around a stack of cups. “And that’s what my da said and he heard it from Mis— _ King _ Thorin who was  _ there _ !”

Clara looked up at him and her blush deepened. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t know. Okay.” Clara put a cup in his hands and Bilbo poured him a cup, tossing him a wink at the burly dwarf. “Do you like it?” Clara asked after he took a sip. “Mister Bilbo says it’s chamomile, but I’ve never had it. I don’t particularly like tea, but Eira says that a good cup of tea when you’re sick is the best potion Healers have ever come up with. And Mister Bilbo says this always makes him feel better.”

“It takes . . . lovely,” Dwalin said. He too never favored tea—he preferred a nice ale, but Dwalin wasn’t exactly here for the tea.

“Ach, that’s enough, cousin,” Oin grunted, his head sticking out of the tent. “Don’t lie to the lass, let her in.”

Clara gave Oin a brilliant smile and pushed past Oin. “Eira! Eira! Mister Baggins found you some tea. Do you like chamomile?”

Bilbo followed her, giving Dwalin a suspicious look as he carried the pot in. Dwalin scowled at the Hobbit’s back and gave the cup to Bard’s youngest before going back into the tent, ignoring the muffled giggles.

“I love chamomile, darling,” Eira smiled, her bandages reapplied. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

Dwalin felt a pang of something when Eira smiled at Bilbo and didn’t use a title, then pressed his lips into a thin line. He stood there, watching as the Healers poked and prodded Eira; she just took it, hand clenched so tight around the cup that it looked entirely bloodless. By the time it was all over, Eira hadn’t moved an inch but the circles under eyes seemed to have gotten twice as dark.

He wasn’t the only to notice; Bilbo stepped forward as Rossendes, Iachon, and Oin were lecturing her about the do’s and don't’s of what she was allowed to do and smiled at them. “I think that Eira knows how to take care of injuries, hm? She’s a grown woman, after all. Why don’t we just let her take a moment alone, so that way she can take a moment for herself?”

It was a grand idea.

Everyone saw the sense in it, even if that dair-haired tree-fucking bastard seemed particularly disinclined to leave Eira alone, looking down at her with a strange light in his eyes. Dwalin grit his teeth and was the first to leave the tent, stomping away without a care to what the reactions he left in the dust were.

But later that day, when the sun was long gone, Dwalin was still staring up at the tarp of the tent, bothered by Gloin’s snoring for the first time in days. He was bothered by a lot of things, but the bit that upset him the most was the look in Eira’s eye that flashed for a moment as she was about to touch her eye. It was a lot harder for Dwalin to try and sleep after remembering her face and he got up, already scowling. His cousins and brother stayed fast asleep as he pulled on his boots, leaving his axes behind for once as he left the tent, moving through shadows to get to Eira’s tent. There was no one, not even a guard, outside of her small tent, allowing Dwalin to get close to the tent. He was just going to stick his head in, make sure she was okay, then he would get a few hours of sleep before the meeting with Dain tomorrow.

But as Dwalin approached, he could hear the soft gasps of someone trying to stop crying.

He froze for a moment, then without thinking, he stomped a bit louder and reached out to shake the flap of the tent. “Lady Eira?” he asked, pitching his voice so that it would carry.

He heard Eira stop crying and she sniffed a few times before saying, “Come in.”

When he walked in, she was alone with nothing but furs to keep her warm and a small candle to light up her tiny tent. But even that weak light illuminated the redness of her eye and nose.

“Oh, Master Dwarf, h-hello,” she said. “I—How can I help you?"

Dwalin blinked and he felt his ears heat up. He hadn’t really thought that Eira would be awake; he simply planned to make sure she was safe, then go back to bed. “I was simply . . . checking to make sure that you were well after Oin and those elves spoke with you. I apologize for not staying longer, but I had business to attend to.”

There. Nothing wrong with that and eloquent enough that even his brother would find little fault with that.

Eira sniffed again and turned pink. “Th-thank you,” she stammered. “I appreciate you stopping by earlier today. I’m all fine though, so . . . thank you.”

Dwalin frowned, unsure if he should push harder or not. “And you’re sleeping well?” he asked. “Do you need more—”

“I said I’m fine!” Eira interrupted, eye wide and voice pitched high. “You don’t need to be here!”

Dwalin blinked, surprised at how upset she was. “I . . . think I do,” he said slowly.

Eira gasped and pressed her lips together, turning away from him. As if that would stop the tears from her eye, as if that would stop him from seeing them.

Dwalin, slow and loud, walked to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

That was all it took for Eira to break down completely. She turned again, this time wholly into him, wrapped her arm around him, and shook with sobs. Dwalin, ever careful of her injured shoulder, hugged her back, one armed, and brought his other hand to rub at her back. Eira cried so hard, so long, that by the time she finally pulled away, the stain on his shoulder was dark enough to be blood.

“I’m, oh gods, I’m so sorry,” she said, the flush of shame on her cheeks. “That was so—”

“Do not worry, my lady,” Dwalin said. “I would, as a matter of fact, be worried if you  _ weren’t _ upset. I doubt those elves gave you time to really understand what happened to you.”

Eira looked at him, tilting her head and squinting her eye. “Happened to me?”

“You lost your home, fought in a battle, and got severely injured. Are you—do you not care?” he asked, utterly confused.

Eira let a mirthless laugh slip through her pink lips. “I cared little for Laketown, Master Dwarf. I just loved those who lived there, not the place itself. I had you, a warrior dwarf, at my back during the battle. And I survived,” she said. “No, I do not care about those things.”

She took a breath and reached for the small mirror that Oin left behind. She held it up, surveying the bandages that wrapped her face and head. Her mein was calm enough, but her brown eye was burning again.

“I care that my bastard father is dead. I care that my mother is dead as well. I care that my sister is still alive and has no night terrors from the dragon or battle, according to Sigrid. I care that I am now so scarred and hideous—”

“No, that’s not—”

“—that no one will marry me.” Clara ignored him, staring at herself with a rictus of repulsion. “How am I supposed to look after Clara if no one will marry someone so . . . someone like me?”

Dwalin was partly shocked and partly horrified to hear what she said. Her scars, among dwarrow, would make her utterly desirable. That she should survive such a battle was an accomplishment enough, but to battle death as well was commendable. Sure, the lass had no beard, but her hair was the color of spun gold and when she smiled, her whole being shone like . . .

_ Oh _ .

Dwalin cleared his throat, focusing on the woman before him, not his stupid feelings. “My lady,” he said, stern enough to be Balin scolding the boys. “Any man that does not wish to marry you because you are strong enough to survive a battle is not just a fool, but a coward as well.”

Eira tore her eye away from her reflection and looked at him with such a wide, open expression, it made Dwalin’s heart ache. But something made her lock that away and instead she gave him a wry twist of her lips. “Thank you for your kind words, but—”

“Do you remember Lord Dain?”

Eira frowned, biting her lip until it reddened and said, “The dwarf that showed up on the war pig?”

Dwalin grinned, nodding his head. “Aye, that’s the one. Lord Dain suffered an injury in battle when he was perhaps not too much younger than you, by dwarven standards. He lost his foot. And yet: he’s still a lord; he’s still one of the most famous of my kin; he’s still one of the most de—” Dwalin cut himself off and shook his head. “Anyone who would turn you away because of your injuries never deserved you, my lady.”

Eira’s pale face turned redder than her lips and she looked down. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking up at him through impossibly white-gold lashes. “That means a lot.”

Dwalin felt his own face heating up. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just . . . if the Men of the Lake turn you away, then you can come to Erebor. We are not as foolish as Men to turn away such skill.”

Her eye was wet with tears when she looked at him but the smile was softer than the finest furs. “Thank you,” she repeated.

Dwalin smiled back at her, then took a step back when she yawned so fierce, she reached up to feel her cheek. “I think you should get some rest, my lady,” Dwalin suggested. “It wouldn’t be right to undo all of Oin’s hard work.”

“Well,” Eira said, lips turning into a more sarcastic smile, “it wouldn’t do for him to get any more grumpy, huh?”

“If such a thing were possible,” Dwalin added, knowing his cousin well.

Eira blew out the candle and slid under the covers. In the dark, Dwalin saw as well as any miner, but Eira squinted to see him. Then, as if he couldn’t see her, she smiled at him.

It was the same soft smile as earlier, but this time, Dwalin saw it in its entirety with no tears to mar it. She stared at him and after almost a minute of silence, she slid further under the cover and closed her eye.

“You don’t have to stand guard over me, Master Dwarf,” Eira murmured, voice thick with sleep and humor.

“Aye,” Dwalin nodded. “Good night, lady Eira.”

“Good night,” she echoed.

Dwalin smiled at the woman and left her tent, heading back to his own, tracing her smile in his mind. It was curious that she stared at him, but it wasn’t as if she would know that dwarrow could see in the dark better than most can see in the light. So . . . that meant that Eira just wanted to look at him, even if she couldn't see him.

As if his mere presence comforted her.

As he fell back onto his cot, not bothering to take off his boots this time, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, wholly comforted by the thought.

(Later that day, after he finished his lunch, Dwalin took a meandering route through the camps. He happened to pass by Eira’s tent and slowed his pace, unconcerned if Thorin would be bothered with him for arriving a bit late to the meeting of the three kings. There, he paused as he heard Dain and Eira talk, Dain’s northern accent and Eira’s soft accent carrying through the clearing. Dwalin ducked his head, hiding a smile, and carried on. After all, he had to get to his meeting and then he had to go hunting to try and find some food for Petal, Dain’s blasted war pig.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name of Dain's pig is taken from the AMAZING Sansûkh, where's it's mentioned in one of the appendices, I think. But it was so cute, so I just plucked it up! ;)
> 
> Also, this is lowkey Dwalin and Eira's first actual conversation . . . you know? Weird.
> 
> Next chapter will be up Sunday night EST!


	4. Erebor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . a lot of the slow burn happens off-screen, I guess? Oh well.
> 
> Another big chapter though! It's probably the longest, all things considered. I don't think the other two will reach the same length, so enjoy it while it lasts!
> 
> Also, we get a bit of besotted!Dwalin in this chapter which is always funny!

Dwalin walked through Erebor’s marketplace, taking the long way to the meeting. Barely seven months had passed since the Company had retaken Erebor, since the battle, and yet Mahal’s children were already bringing life back to the mountain. Dwalin had few memories of Erebor before the dragon took it, but he remembered the screams from the marketplace when the dragon came.

Those memories were being replaced, however, with the sights and sounds of a bustling marketplace. It wasn’t as big as it could be, not yet, but it was growing. Dwalin liked that, seeing his home grow to the glory it once held. He also liked it because it made it easier to pick out tall, blonde warriors from Dale.

When he saw Eira, he forced himself to not run over to the woman. It had been about two months since they last saw each other, face-to-face; they were each named Head of the Guard for their kingdom and, as a result, they barely had time to send each other a letter every other day, much less meeting each other for tea the way Bilbo preferred. And as content as Dwalin was with just a letter, seeing her in person was always . . . favorable. He walked to the woman, he noticed that she was at a Blacklock’s stand, looking at the kohl they brought from the East to Erebor.

“Durin blue, that’s a g—”

Her dagger and sheath sung a deadly song then stopped, crashing against Dwalin’s iron gauntlet with an echoing crash and everyone in the marketplace turned to look at them.

But Dwalin only had eyes for the blush that covered Eira’s face, neck, and ears, the way her eyes were wide with embarrassment and shock, the way her mouth had dropped open and her lips turned even redder than before.

She nearly dropped her dagger in her haste to put it away. “Master Dwarf!” she exclaimed. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Think nothing of it,” Dwalin promised her. He spared a glance at his gauntlet and smirked at the line in the steel. “I forgot to not approach you from this side.”

_“It’s just so annoying_ ,” she told him weeks ago, “ _that I lost my sight. Or, rather,_ inconvenient _. Because not only do I feel like my neck always has a crick in it from constantly turning around, but my big, stupid nose is in the way. I can’t see over or around it at all, my friend! The amount of times I’ve jumped because Clara or Sigrid have snuck up on that side . . . it’s utterly ridiculous!”_

“Eira! Are you okay?”

Bard’s son, Bain, was with her in the mountain, wearing a small circlet made of gold and shining rubies. They were both in Erebor, along with Bard, some of his advisors, and a gaggle of elves from Mirkwood to edit the treaty they created after the Battle. It was only ever a temporary measure and, with spring in the air and everyone far away from the brink of death, it was time to rewrite the treaty.

The only benefit of all the statecraft was that the elves were staying in Dale, not Erebor.

“I’m fine, Bain,” Eira said. “Just a misunderstanding. Have you found what you’re looking for?” The boy gave Dwalin a strange look but shook his head. “Hm, okay. We’re still on time for the meeting, so that’s fine. But do you need help looking for . . . whatever it is you’re trying to find?”

“No!” Bain protested, his blush present even on his tanned skin. “I can find it on my own!”

The boy raced away and Eira shook her head, turning to him slightly as she went back to looking at the colored kohl. “For Clara?” Dwalin asked.

“Yes,” Eira sighed, eye narrowed as she inspected two colors. “He thinks I don’t know, but, well, Sigrid found out and . . .” Eira trailed off and gave him a quick half-smile, eye flashing with amusement.

“She told you,” Dwalin finished needlessly.

Eira nodded and picked up two shades of blue, silently asking him a question. He picked out the Durin blue and Eira passed it over to the merchant, who wrapped it up and placed it next to three other packages.

“Why the kohl?” Dwalin asked.

Eira’s ears turned a pinkish color as she moved over a bit and looked at shades of red. “Lord Dain suggested it,” she muttered, her ears turning ever darker. “He suggested finding something to make the . . . eye situation less obvious. At first, he sent over these patches with _eyes_ painted on them, which was jarring. Then some jeweled ones, which were nice, but I just felt strange wearing them. So, I managed to talk him down to simple dyed ones.”

Eira smiled and handed over another color (a harsh red, a few shades lighter than blood) to the merchant. “Sigrid found some black kohl in the ruins, hence the look today.” She wore a plain black leather eyepatch and matching kohl on her good eye. It made her eye look sharper, her whole face harder. It wasn’t a bad choice of color, but Dwalin would have preferred she wear another one. (Like the Durin blue, perhaps.) “But I’d rather not look any more grim than I have to.”

“Aye, it would be in poor taste for the Head of the Dale Guard to make her king feel second-best,” Dwalin drawled.

Eira laughed, a bright loud thing that had a few other dwarrow looking their way. She looked at him, a fond light in her eye and a fonder smile curving her lips. She handed Moli another jar of kohl, but as she fumbled with her coin purse, Dwalin stepped forward, dropping a handful of crowns into Moli’s hand.

“Oh! My friend,” Eira said, “I can—”

“Think nothing of it,” Dwalin interrupted, giving her the stack of kohl.

Eira looked down at him, a smile still fixed on her face and held his hand through the kohl. For a moment, Dwalin felt a bitter wave of self-hatred—without his damned gauntlet, he had no doubt he’d be able to feel the heat of her hand, the softness of her skin, the way her pulse was (hopefully) beating frantically. But he was wearing his gauntlets, so he could only guess what the touch of her hand was like. Which was, really, a shame.

“Eira, I—oh, sorry.”

Dwalin had nothing against children, he even hoped to have a few pebbles of his own when he was older, but at that moment, the Bardling could have given him all the riches of Dale and Dwalin still would have torn his head off for interrupting them.

Eira jumped back from him, clutching the kohl to her silver-black breastplate, eye wide and her whole face was a ruddy red. She turned away from Dwalin, but her hair was pulled into a high ponytail that showed just how red her neck was.

Bain stood there, an awkward look on his face, a velvet bag clutched in his hand. “I finished shopping,” he said, looking between them. “Shouldn’t we, uh, get to the meeting?”

“Ye—” Eira’s voice squeaked and she cleared her throat, nodding frantically. “Yes, smart job, Bain, well done. Why don’t—why don’t you run ahead, hm? We’ll be, uh, be along shortly.”

“Okay,” the boy nodded, then sped away, leaving Eria and Dwalin alone again.

Eira’s good side was to Dwalin, but it didn’t matter—her head was tilted up, eye closed. She was biting her lip, the tender skin turning redder as the rest of her blush faded away. He had seen Men pray to the sky before, a stark contrast to the dwarrow who prayed to the earth beneath their feet. But Eira didn’t look like she was praying. She looked far too old to believe in prayer as the lantern light caught the fine scars she earned in the battle. Dwalin wondered what the left side of her face looked like, if he could see the scars left behind by the fine elven stitching, or if there would just be pockmarks of youth instead. 

“I can escort you to the meeting, if you wish.” Dwalin didn’t know what possessed him to speak up, but when she looked at him again, there was a strange light in her eyes. “It wouldn’t be a bother,” he continued. “After all, I’m required to be there as well.”

There was a moment of silence, a beat too long, then Eira smiled again. That same, familiar, fond smile that never failed to comfort him, to make his heart beat a bit too quick.

“I’d like that,” she admitted.

And it was different this time; her voice was all her, the look in her eyes all wrong. If he were anyone else, he’d say that Eira was nervous, that she was shy. But he was just Dwalin, son of Fundin; he was no great king. But for Eira’s smile, for her sake, Dwalin ignored his melancholic thoughts and gave her a gruff smile.

“Very well then. Just this way.”

They both arrived a few minutes late, if the annoyed look Balin sent him meant anything. But it was worth it to take Eira the longer route, passing the Hall of Kings where the golden floor gleamed. While the gold Dwalin preferred the most was the golden hair Eira had, even he couldn’t deny the magnificence of the Hall. Dwalin took his seat next to Balin and Eira took a seat a little ways away, sitting between Bard and Bain, dumping her kohl into Bain’s lap, tossing a smirk to the boy as he pouted.

“Welcome,” Thorin said, getting to his feet. “It gladdens my heart to see so many friends in these halls to redraw our original treaty.”

It was a bold lie, but Thorin was a bold king and if any of the visitors disagreed with him, it didn’t show on their face.

Which bothered Dwalin, because if he was to spend the whole day arguing over legal mineautia, he would have preferred some yelling or arguing. As the hours passed, just sitting and debating everything from new trade routes to the amount of guards that would be on the Southern Gate of Erebor to not make the guards on the Northern Wall of Dale worried or the exact lines between Mirkwood and Dale in fields to the east, Dwalin was about to—

“And, Dwalin, what do you think?”

Dwalin turned to blink innocently at Balin, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eira’s head snap up so fast that he was surprised he didn’t hear the bones creak from a half-dozen seats away. “Well, brother, I think that,” he tried to focus on what he was saying but Eira was staring at him with narrowed eyes and an inscrutable look on her face that made it hard, “if the Dalemen are worried about too many guards, they shouldn’t be. If something comes from the South, through Dale, Erebor needs to be aware of it.”

“If you’ll pardon me,” Eira said, surprising even Bard. “I have to agree with Dwalin. Dwalin, and the guards of Erebor, are our closest allies. Uh, no offense instead, Captain Nordir. As a result, if harm ever comes to Dale again, they need to be aware of it, rather than just rely on the sight of Men streaming and screaming out of the city once more. Like he, Dwalin, said.”

Bard nodded slowly, clearly swayed by Eira’s augment.

Emboldened, Eira added. “If I may add onto what Dwalin was saying—by doing this, we can continue to strengthen our allegiance with the Mountain, King Bard.” It was clearly meant only for Bard’s ears, but her voice carried in the still of the room.

“And what of Greenwood?” Thranduil’s voice was frosty and while he wasn’t exactly glaring at Eira, his expression wasn’t too kind. Dwalin hated him even harder than he did moments ago, which was already a fair amount.

Eira looked between the three kings and took a breath. Her hands fell off the table and, based on the tension in her shoulders, Dwalin had no doubt that it was done to hide her nervousness. “What of Greenwood, King Thranduil?”

“Are we not allies with Dale, Lady Eira?” His voice was slick and serpentine, in typical elven fashion of those tree-shagging pricks. “Haven’t we stood beside the people of Dale when they were the people of Laketown, homeless and starving?”

Bard frowned, obviously surprised to hear such an attack at one of his favored advisors, and his ward to boot.

But Eira spoke up before he could. “I apologize, King Thranduil, for my poorly worded statement,” she said, far easier than Dwalin ever could. “I am aware of all that Greenwood has done for Dale and Laketown. I did not mean to offend you. What I was trying to convey was that, in terms of distance, it would be far quicker for Erebor to aid us if something was wrong than Greenwood. That, uh, is not to say that we believe Greenwood would ignore us, as we would not ignore them—you—in any times of distress. But, again, simply that Dwalin’s sentiment that Erebor could help Dale before Greenwood is true and we would be fools to ignore it.”

There was silence from all around the time and Dwalin stared at her in shock. Few people, his brother included, could deal with the Elvenking’s snide insults and hold their own. Once again, Eira was subverting expectations left, right, and center.

“And is Greenwood supposed to sit back and allow the relationship between Dale and Erebor to strengthen to a point of favoritism?”

Hisses and growls echoed in the chamber as Eira looked at the king, wide-eyed and pale-faced. Thorin commanded his delegates to be quiet while a hand from Bard did the same to the Men. There was almost a minute of silence, then Eira let out a breath.

“I would never want that, King Thranduil,” she said. “After all, it was the food from Greenwood that gave myself, and my soldiers, the strength to fight while the weapons you brought aided us in the fight against the orcs and goblins little more than a half-year ago. I will never forget that, neither will anyone from Dale, Your Majesty.”

And didn’t that sting, the fact that elves stood with Eira long before she and Dwalin fought Azog together. Dwalin was also aware that it was elven healing magic that helped her, something even Oin had to agree upon. He knew that now, the case was different, but the fact that Dwalin had abandoned Eira when she needed him most . . . it hurt in a way few things had ever hurt.

“And I would truly hate to see the relationship between Dale and Greenwood diminish to allow the relationship between Dale and Erebor to grow. Which is why,” she looked to Bard for a moment, then to Dwalin and took another. “Which is why I propose a monthly, scouting trip with two, or three, people from each kingdom to scout on the outskirts of all of our kingdoms. By doing so, we can not only further bonds between our kingdoms but also between individual soldiers that can feel comfort in knowing their allies better, on a more personable level. By helping the relationships between soldiers grow, we can—”

“And if we were to ever go to war?” Thranduil questioned, eyes narrowed to icy slits as he interrupted her without a single care. “We already know that some at this table have no qualms with turning their backs on others.”

Dwalin’s growl was overshadowed by Eira’s laugh that turned into her coughing with embarrassment. “Sorry, I, uh, choked, um, no, anyway,” she said, blushing slightly as she cleared her throat, moving one hand to the table to drum it. “Anyway. I admit, I wasn’t really thinking about the possibilities of war. I mean, perhaps I’m a bit presumptuous in saying this, but Dale isn’t . . . _looking_ to go to war.”

“I believe that should go without saying,” Bard drawled, looking at Eira with fond annoyance.

“Neither is Erebor,” Thorin said, voice flat and eyes flintly.

“Glad that’s settled,” Balin declared. “Thank you, Lady Eira, for that truly magnificent idea. However, forgive me, but it looks like we are set to break for the day. I’m certain that we all have much to discuss before the next meeting tomorrow.”

The three enovies all stood up, each clearly looking forward to heading to the nearest tavern to relax and forget about the diplomatic horrorshow that they all sat through for the last ten hours. Dwalin _especially_ was looking forward to decapitating some dummies as Thranduil’s smug, infuriating words echoed in his ears for the next few hours. How dare he imply that Eira’s plan was—

“Dwalin!”

The blonde warrior was dancing around other Men and dwarrow, heading towards him with a determined look in her eye. Dwalin was confused but stood up, meeting her halfway. She was maybe three, four inches taller than him but with her eye burning, it was as if they were eye to eyes. She looked at him and he looked at her.

“Yes, Eira?”

She started and then blushed, the burning look in her dimming to something softer. “I didn’t know—know that you and Lord Balin were brothers, Dwalin,” she said.

Dwalin was confused for a moment, but smiled anyways. “Aye, he’s far shorter and wider than me. It’s an easy mistake to make,” he said.

She threw her head back and laughed, drawing a few looks from across the room. Including one from Bard who eyed Dwalin with a suspicious look, mirrored by one on not just his son, but also Balin, Thorin, and Bilbo.

“Eira,” Bard called out, once her giggles died down, “we should be leaving.”

Eira looked over her shoulder then back at Dwalin. “Yes, my king,” she said, giving Bard a short bow.

She smiled at Dwalin, shrugging her shoulders. “Duty calls.”

“Aye,” Dwalin nodded. “But, before you go—”

“Yes?” she interrupted, eye lit up.

“Your idea was brilliant,” he praised, watching a happy blush spread across her face. “As was your discussion with the Elvenking, he can be a right—” He cut himself off, keenly aware that Thranduil was standing beside Bard, one brow raised as if he was just waiting for a reason to start problems. “He can be clever. But you proved to be cleverer.”

Eira’s mouth dropped open slightly, apparently surprised at the complement, as if she had never received one before. She looked strangely open and Dwalin wanted nothing more than to kiss her, right there, beadless or not. Then she gave him her signature smile and took a step back. “Thank you, Dwalin,” she said. “That means a lot from you. I have to go, but you’ll be here tomorrow, right?"

“Of course,” he promised. “Actually, would you be opposed to arriving an hour or so earlier? We can—”

“Yes!” she blurted out, then cleared her throat. “I would be honored, Dwalin.” She said his name so perfectly, her soft Laketown accent curving it like a fine blade. “I’ll be at the Gates an hour before the meeting is to start,” she vowed, then gave him one last smile before rushing to meet the Dale and Mirkwood delegations at the door.

“Finally!” Bain exclaimed, shoving the jars of kohl in her hands.

Eira laughed and ruffled his hair, saying something to make the boy flush. They started to leave, but just before she left the room, Eira turned to look over her shoulder, tossing a bold wink to Dwalin, blushing slightly.

“Smart lass,” Balin commented and Dwalin glared at his brother.

“Shocking that someone so young can come up with something so clever,” Bilbo added, thumbs in his pockets

“She turns 20 in three months,” Dwalin snapped. “And her father was—”

“Calm down, Dwalin,” Thorin said, smirking slightly. “Someone might think you care for the girl.”

Dwalin couldn’t help the blush that spread across his cheeks and the three other men looked at him with varying expressions. Balin was shocked, Thorin was incredulous, and Bilbo was smiling at him.

“Dwalin, do you, do you like Eira?” Bilbo whispered, taking a step closer to him. The Hobbit’s eyes were wide with hope, so clearly excited at even the mere hint of potential love between the two warriors.

“I don’t like her,” Dwalin snapped. Everyone relaxed, then Dwalin added, “I love her.”

“Mahal’s balls,” Balin groaned while Bilbo swooned and Thorin laughed.

“Come, cousin,” Thorin said, blue eyes dancing with amusement at the discomfort of his oldest friend, “let’s talk.”

Dwalin echoed his brother’s groan, but allowed himself to be pulled by his king. He wasn’t worried about what he would say—he had known that something was special about Eira for months now. All he had to do was figure out if she felt the same, but Dwalin was willing to bet that she did. After all, he had yet to see another else ever get one of her soft smiles; he was the only one.

Hopefully, he would only ever be the only one.

And, given the glare she was giving Sigrid as he approached the gate, it seemed likely he would. He caught the tail end of something that Eira was hissing at her as he approached. “—because he would never like me like that, you know that, Sig! So just let me have this!”

A cold hand gripped the back of his neck and, before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Am I interrupting?”

He hoped he was. Dwalin hoped he was interrupting whatever Eira had been saying about someone who liked her _like that_ and that she would forget about him and see Dwalin instead, care for Dwalin instead.

Eira turned around after a small jolt and smiled at him, beatific as always. “Not at all, so glad to see you here, Dwalin.”

“Yes, and a whole 30 minutes early too,” Sigrid added, milder than a summer wind.

Dwalin was silent for a moment, then replied, “So are you.”

Eira turned ruby red while Sigrid gave a serene smile. It took her a moment, but when she spoke, Eira’s voice was calm, if somewhat strained. “Yes, well, you never know what you might come across on the roads, these days.”

“And I had to come early to meet with Dori for some measurements,” Sigrid said, her tone blase but eyes twinkling.

Eira’s coloring evened out and she gave Sigrid a wide smile, toothy and pleased. She embraced her friend, whispering into her ear. Then as Eira pulled back, she gave Sigrid a noisy kiss on the cheek.

Dwalin wondered what it felt like, if Eira’s lips were petal soft or refreshing like a spring breeze— _enough!_ he scolded himself. He had to be focused, he wasn’t about to turn into some lovesick fool like Thorin or Kili had become. He snapped out of his head when he heard Sigrid’s carrying whisper:

“Maybe you should save some of those for someone else?” Eira’s calm disposition changed in a flash. She was ruby red again and glaring at her friend.

Dwalin crushed the bud of hope in his chest as forced himself to focus. He had to set aside his romantic feelings and focus on his platonic ones. Eira was upset by Sigrid’s words and she had come here early to relax before another day of negotiations and deals. Dwalin stood there like a block of granite and allowed Eira to become more and more agitated when he should have dragged Eira away the moment he saw her.

He cleared his throat and gave what he hoped was a normal smile to Eira. “If you wanted, while the Princess goes to Dori’s shop, you and I could break our fast together, before the meeting?”

For some reason, Sigrid looked away, focusing on nothing in particular as she bit her lip and watched them out of the corner of her eye.

Eira blinked, then smiled. It was her soft and precious smile. Dwalin liked it. He wished that he could take them and preserve them in glass, to keep him company long after Eira left, once she got on with her life and left him—

“I’d love to,” she told him. “Do you have somewhere in mind? Or will we go to your quarters—”

“Eira!” Sigrid interrupted, cheeks flaming and eyes wide.

Dwalin steadfastly ignored the implication in Eira’s suggestion. It was just that—an implication. And a mistake, besides. “Yes, there’s a small shop that has a good baker. Bilbo suggested it.”

He was _definitely_ imagining the flash of disappointment in Eira’s eyes.

“That sounds lovely,” she said, sounding perfectly normal herself. It wasn’t as if she was upset that Dwalin had rejected her offer of him taking her back to his bed. No, of course not.

“I agree. I’ll see you both before the meeting?” Sigrid interjected.

Eira nodded and waved her off, stepping forward and staring at Dwalin with her steel-sharp eyes. Being the subject of her stare . . . Dwalin wondered how dark her eyes would get if—

“Let’s go!” he exclaimed, voice shaky for the first time in decades. “It’s just down here.”

He led Eira down the halls and when they made it to the shop, they took their seats and, for a moment, he allowed himself to pretend that this was a regular occurrence, that this was in their rooms, that this was between a married couple. He allowed himself that one moment of fantasy then looked at the small tray of tea cakes, reminding himself that if this was all he would get, he would be the luckiest Dwarrow since Durin the Deathless himself. Knowing your One is always a gift, even if the other doesn't know it themselves. And just because Eira didn't know it, didn't mean that he should cease all communication with her, end their relationship. A platonic one is better than a lack of one.

And with the excited gasp and smile Eira gave him when a tray of brightly-colored food appeared, Dwalin knew that this was just fine for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neither of them are that subtle and, ugh, I love them for it. Also, this features wingwoman!Sigrid (which is the best Sigrid).
> 
> Also, brownie points to whoever figures out what Eira learned about Dwalin in this chapter.
> 
> Next update will be on Wednesday—sorry it's a day late, but I'm not quite satistified with it yet.


	5. Dale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry it's so late! It's pretty long, though, with a phenomenal ending, if I do say so myself!

Dwalin crossed his arms, frowning harder than ever as he watched the lords and ladies of Bard’s hall dance the first dance, his daughter Sigrid and some lord from Rohan leading everyone, their golden hair shining in the light. But it was Eira’s hair that gleamed white-gold in the light, a stark contrast to the dark Daleish hair of her partner.

_ She looks lovely _ , Dwalin thought, watching Eira move across the floor.

And he was right. She was wearing green, not a common color for her, but it looked stunning. It was summer, so her arms (muscled-scarred-toned-delicious) were wrapped in a thin material that caused Dori to enlist Bilbo’s help in bejeweling. Her dress was two layers, it seemed to him, one simple close-fitting layer of something that looked like silk and that thin, bejeweled layer. It dipped in the front, tempting Dwalin to look at her. He resisted, of course, but he wished that he could ogle her as shamelessly as the men from Rohan were doing. She, of course, was wearing the knife he gave her a little less than a year ago. Dwalin had yet to see Eira go a day without it and, everytime she had it with her, it was always being touched by her; sometimes it was a caress when she thought he didn’t see it, other times she tapped it as she though, occasionally, when he was arriving early to an engagement with her, she would have it in her hands, staring at the detail on the hilt like it was something precious to her.

As if Dwalin was precious to her.

He watched her dance, moving in and around the other partners. She always had a wink and quip for her Daleish partners while the Rohirrim were given a fixed, polite smile. Dwalin cursed himself for arriving so late, perhaps he could have joined in, spared her the annoyance of those twittering horse-lords.

Dwalin drank in her appearance greedily, the only drink he would consume all night. 

“Master Dwalin.”

Dwalin turned around to see Agnar, Eira’s second, approach him. The mustached, weary man was the good sort; he didn’t care that his superior was half his age and a woman besides. Eira had never complained about him in the past two years and would often write to him to find ways to reward Agnar’s ideas and behavior. Agnar was the Head of the Guard for the night, as Eira was officially off-duty, concerned with her duties for Sigrid’s wedding.

“Master Agnar,” Dwalin nodded. “How are things tonight?”

Agnar shrugged, watching the line of dancers from over Dwalin’s shoulder. “We’ve had enough drunken louts in the cells to last the rest of the season. And there’s still three more days of celebrations,” he told him. “These Rohirrim . . . they get off their horses and suddenly, they become fish-men.” Dwalin frowned at the man, unclear if Agnar misspoke or if Dwalin didn’t understand what he said. Agnar scowled, turning faintly pink. “They drink a lot, I mean that they drink a lot.”

_ He wanted to be a poet when he was a boy, he told me once. The things he says sometimes . . . perhaps it’s for the best he didn’t. _ Dwalin remembered a line from Eira’s letters and decided to move on. “Well, you know what they say about—”

“Dwalin!”

Dwalin spun around, completely ignoring Agnar. Eira was pushing her way through the crowds to get to his side. The small emeralds on the eye-patch he gifted her for her last name day didn’t shine even half as bright as Eira’s own smile. Closer up, he saw that she had something on her lips, turning into a rose quartz color. He kept his eyes on Eira’s face, but he could see that her dress was lower than he previously thought.

“Eira,” he forced out, trying to pretend it was an ordinary night, that she wasn’t putting her assets on display, that she didn’t look more beautiful than Sigrid in her white-gold dress and diamond studded crown. “Eira, how are you?”

“Absolutely exhausted,” she groaned. “It’s been two days of nonstop dancing and I really can’t wait to put away these shoes and trade them for sensible boots.” She thrust out her leg and Dwalin could have gone his life without ever seeing so much of her leg.

It looked . . . soft.

Then Dwalin looked at her shoes and nodded. He didn’t speak up, knowing himself well enough that if he tried, he’d make a fool of himself. Either his voice would be too low or it would break or he would say the wrong thing.

“I’m going to . . . go,” Agnar said. Dwalin didn’t bother replying. Neither did Eira. 

When Eira realized Dwalin was just looking beyond her leg to the dancers and she frowned, then put her leg down. They were quiet for a moment, then she cleared her throat again. “It’s a shame that you missed the first dance of the night, Dwalin. I had hoped to share it with you. Do you plan on coming earlier for the last two days?”

“Perhaps,” Dwalin grunted. “It depends on how disorganized the Guard is.”

Eira blinked. A servant passed by and, lightning quick, Eira took two cups off his tray. She gave one to him then took a long sip of the other. “I wish I just had a disorganized Guard. Agnar’s been giving me the reports every night and our visitors have been . . . challenging. Times like this, I get jealous of you Dwarrow. King Thorin has the final say in all matters, he needs to consult his advisors, sure, but no one else. And if he wanted to do something his advisors suggested against, he could do it anyway. Here . . . Bard’s hands get tied up in every technicality with the different laws and customs.”

“We have different customs among our people,” Dwalin argued, taking a sip of his mead. “The problem isn’t with people following theirs too much, it’s with people not wanting to follow others, unlike you Men. You’re all too set in your ways, my lady.”

“Perhaps not all of us,” Eira suggested, looking at him. “Aren’t you complimenting my ideas half the time, Master  _ Dwarf _ ?”

“Aye, because everything from you is praise-worthy,” Dwalin told her, bluntly honest in a way that gave Balin headaches. “But that’s because you’re the exception, not the rule. Most Men don’t think like you.”

Eira made a small noise, then took another sip. Dwalin saw a momentary flash of what looked to be displeasure on her face, but it disappeared before he could really understand why it was there. He opened his mouth but then thought better of it and took another drink. It wasn’t his place to ask further questions. That would be someone else’s, that would be—

“Would you like to dance, Lady Eira?”

Dwalin glared at the Rohirrim who asked her. He was a head taller than Eira and his hair was as brown as her eyes. It was an ugly color on him. Eira hesitated, looked to Dwalin, then pressed her mouth into a thin line. “I’d be honored, of course,” she told him. “Please excuse me, Dwalin.”

He watched her go onto the dance floor, confused.

The past few nights, she had only accepted a few offers, most from other Daleish partners, to dance. The rare occasion she would accept an offer from a Rohirrim partner would be followed by gripping about them; never would she have just accepted an offer so quickly, so freely. Especially not so early in the night—this time was reserved for her conversation with Dwalin. It had been the same at other celebrations in the past couple of years.

Dwalin was confused as to why she would just . . . forget that. A flicker of fear curled in his breast. Maybe she was going to forget him? Leave him behind?

“Alright, cousin?”

Gloin was dressed in his usual princely finery, as was Mizim. An ugly part of Dwalin, a small part of him, felt a rush of envy fueled anger at them. Then he pushed it aside. It had no place here, not tonight, not so close to Eira when she looked so beautiful. She didn’t deserve his ugliness.

Dwalin shrugged, greeting his cousin and his wife. “Good night so far,” he said.

“Aye, it seems that way. Every night, these Men out-do the night before!” Gloin exclaimed. “I heard that for the last night they’ll have a statue of the little Princess and her husband. Made of ice!”

Dwalin nodded. “Aye, Eira said it would be there.”

“And where is Lady Eira now?” Mizim asked. “Why is she not at your side?”

There was a strange note in her voice and Dwalin frowned. “She’s dancing.”

The couple looked at each other, at the dance floor, and back at each other. “With a Man. Not you. Didn’t you miss the first dance? Again,” Mizim asked, the reproach clear.

“I can’t help it if the Guard is a bunch of—”

“You could have foisted the task off to someone else,” Gloin interrupted, his beard bristling with rage. “Instead you didn’t and now, some Man has taken it upon himself to try and steal—” A quick elbow to Gloin’s gut from Mizim silenced him.

And good thing to, for Dwalin was redder than his cousin with fury. As if he could have given the task off to someone else—it was his  _ duty _ . Eira knew that, Eira understood that. She wouldn’t have wanted him to shirk it, not when she wouldn’t have shirked it herself. Besides, it’s not as if a Man could steal from him. Eira wasn’t his, simple as that. She was hers and he was alone. They may be close, but never as close as Dwalin would want. It was better for her, for them both.

And a Man wouldn’t be able to take anything from Eira that she wouldn’t give away. 

Dwalin didn’t bother to dignify Gloin’s lecture with a comment, he just continued to glare at the Firebeard. He spent so long glaring at him that he missed the commotion on the floor. All he heard was a slap, loud and echoing, and then someone say, “What a surprise—you’re as barbaric as those dwarves.” As he turned around, he saw Eira slap her dance partner, or former dance partner, on his other cheek, so that both were red and smarting.

The Man raised his own hand and, even though Eira could have handled it herself, even though she wasn’t cowering, someone else caught it. It was Bard, dressed in blue velvet and silver thread and a sturdy crown that had been printed with fish scales. “Lord Balfred,” he said, voice colder than the deepest mines of Erebor in the middle of winter.

The Man quailed and was subsently escorted out by Agnar himself, the burly man’s mustache standing up on edge as he practically dragged the other Man out of the hall. A few more Rohirrim guests followed him while others were hovering around Bard, worthless apologies spilling from their slimy lips. Eira was surrounded by her sister and the Princesses, but she wasn’t paying attention to them. Instead, she was watching him with a mostly blank expression, her face smoother than a thousand pillars, except for her brows which were so furrowed, she might’ve been in pain from them. After Clara poked her in the side, Eira looked at her sister and said something to make them step back. A few more words and Eira was making her way to Dwalin, giving meaningless smiles and nods to everyone between them.

Once she was in arms reach, Mizim reached out and took her hands. “Are you ok, darling?”

Eira looked at him but replied to Mizim, “Yes, yes, I wasn’t the one who got slapped.”

“But you had to suffer his disgusting presence,” Kili said, from where he had pushed through the crowd, his elf a few steps behind him, unsubtle as always. “And what he said about you, about Dwalin, about you and Dwalin—”

“What did he say?” The words were wretched from him, making him feel most surprised of all. “What did he say to you? How has he insulted you?”

Eira looked at him and, not for the first time that night, he got the sense that he was in a lot more trouble than he was aware of. “How has he insulted me?” she repeated. She huffed out a laugh, the edge of her mouth flickering into a sardonic smile for a moment. “He didn’t insult me. He just had some opinions about me living in disgrace with a dwarf. Then he felt the need to comment on how we cou—would be together. Then I slapped him and, well, it seems that you were paying attention.”

If it was anyone but Eira, Dwalin would have let the rush in his ears overwhelm him after hearing “living in disgrace with a dwarf” because . . . what? Who was Eira interested in? Who would she be living with, besides the Bardlings, besides Eira? There was no other dwarf she was closer to than himself, as far as he was aware. And if there had been, she would have told him, would have spoken with him. Or she would have confided in Bilbo or Kili or Ori and they all would have reached out to him, aware of his feelings towards her, to warn him about what he might see.

That being said, there was something harsher turning her lips than a smile. It was a rictus of a smile, something that couldn’t even attempt to hide the pain in her eye.

“Which dwarf?”

Everyone around them took a breath as Eira jerked back, like she had been struck with an arrow. Gloin and Mizim were looking at each other, having a conversation with their face and without their words; Kili was staring at him with an open mouth; and Fili and Fukis, his betrothed, were whispering to each other, the Dwarrowdam’s face twisted in confusion. It was only Eira he paid attention to, though. Eira who, after standing up straight again, glared down at him with all the fire of Smaug in her eye.

“ _ Which _ dwarf?” she echoed again. “Which  _ dwarf _ ?” She took a step closer and bent down so that their faces weren’t too far apart and he could smell her perfume (a low seductive scent that had taken him days and quite a few gold pieces to find—worth it though). “What do you take me for, Dwalin?” she hissed. “A harlot? A whore? Someone who would spend their days with their betrothed and their nights with random men? There isn’t another dwarf, you fool, I don’t know what is  _ wrong _ with you that you would think that? What exactly did I do that would make you think that?” Her voice broke on the last question, her eye glistening before him.

“ _ Betrothed _ ?” Dwalin croaked.

Eira had stepped away from him now, her face pale and blinking rapidly, a hand on the hilt of her knife even as it shook. He mourned the loss of her, of her smell, but he had to focus.

Everything was getting to be too much for him. He didn’t understand why Eira was angry with him earlier, he didn’t understand why she had agreed to dance with that insulting horse-fucker, he didn’t understand why Gloin had been angry with him earlier, and he  _ especially _ didn’t understand what Eira had been saying the last few minutes.

She wasn’t  _ betrothed _ .  _ She would have told him _ ! Dwalin insisted to himself, carefully ignoring how he sounded like a spoiled dwarfling, whingeing to his amad. 

Eira cleared her throat a few times and pulled herself together before Dwalin could do the same for himself. “Yes,” she said, voice guarded, “betrothed. You would know. I mean . . . you’re my betrothed, after all.” She tried for a light, upbeat tone at the end, slightly cajoling, as if convincing him to remember, almost—it was  _ hopeful _ , somehow.

But . . . they weren’t betrothed?

Yes, he carried both a set of beads and a ring around him at all times. And yes, he had spent longer on those items than the knife he gave her. And yes, he wanted to be betrothed, but they weren’t. He hadn’t given them to her and—

“We have been ever since you gave me this knife,” she said, the same tone as before, cajoling and hopeful, as she held out his gift. “It’s not a bead, or a ring, yes, but Ori said that it was more common for people to give, uhm, ‘Craft Gifts’ before the dragon came. So, since you do seem to lack the necessary parts to benefit from a bead, the knife is a more than adequate solution. I mean, King Thorin gave Bilbo the mithril shirt, if you remember. So, really, it’s not that uncommon, even now.”

Dwalin was still silent, then shook his head. “That wasn’t a betrothal gift,” was all he could say.

And then—

Dwalin had seen plenty of sights that were the absolute definition of ruin. Erebor, after Smaug came. Khazad-dûm, before the battle. Khazad-dûm, after the battle. Ered Luin. Erebor, before they battled Smaug. Erebor, after they battled Smaug. Laketown, after they battled Smaug. Eira, after the battle. He had seen plenty of tragedy.

But nothing compared to the look on Eira’s face as it crumpled.

It was devastating—heartbreaking—terrible—tragic—it was  _ bad _ . It was bad and it was because of  _ him _ .

Before Dwalin could say anything else, Eira let out a high, reedy laugh. Her fingers were closing and opening, closing and opening around the sheathed blade, but she didn’t drop it. “You’ll have to forgive me. You’ll have to excuse me.” Then she turned around and  _ ran _ for the exit.

He watched her run.

“What the fuck was that?” Fili, ever the gentleman, didn’t bother to censor himself for Fukis. He was glaring at Dwalin with the fury of a thousand orcs and his hands were at his side, fisted. “Since when did you decide to break off the betrothal?”

“There isn’t a betrothal!” Dwalin snarled. “I would know, wouldn’t I?”

“Obviously—”

Fukis put one hand on Fili’s arm, then smiled at Dwalin, her previous confusion gone. “I think we’re all a bit confused here, Lord Dwalin,” she said, formal as ever, even for an Iron Hills lady. “We were under the impression that you had begun a courtship with Lady Eira, like she said, after you gifted her the knife. Are we wrong?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “I would have given her a ring, as men do, then seen if she would have liked a bead as well. I wouldn’t give her a damned knife. Why would she need a knife? She already has a few  _ dozen _ of them.”

“Because it was a gift from  _ you _ , cousin,” Gloin snapped. “The girl’s been half in love with you from the moment you two met, it seemed, or did you not notice?”

Dwalin felt as though some dumped him in a freezing lake. Eira . . . loved him? The same way he loved her? That—it couldn’t be. He wasn’t good enough for her; he was too old, too scarred, too simple, a  _ Dwarf _ , for Mahal’s sake. She deserved a prince, not his old foolish self. She admired him, yes, liked him, trusted him, relied on him, but loved him? Of course not, that was foolish.

But, looking around at everyone’s faces (Mizim and Fukis: sympathetic, Fili and Gloin: furious, Kili: incredulous) Dwalin realized how badly he just fucked up.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he said, flat as a blade.

“Wait, stop,” Kili said, grabbing his arm. His incredulity was now replaced by fierce determination. “You’re going to explain to her that you misspoke and didn’t act accordingly, but that you still love her and wish to marry her, correct?”

Dwalin gave Kili such a look that the prince winced and stepped back, leaning away from him.

Dwalin stormed out of the Hall, thinking back to where Eira would have gone. After checking the Guardhouse, the Bell Tower, and the docks, Dwalin finally got the Eastern Tower. It was a tall but fragile thing. Before the dragon, it was a wide, sturdy thing that was used as a lookout tower for approaching traders. Now it stood as a reminder of what Dale used to be, what it could be.

And, according to Eira’s letters, it was used as a meeting place for sweethearts. 

Ironically, Eira took him there once, a few days after he received that letter. It was a late night and, besides the stars and moon above them, they were alone. Looking back, it was painfully obvious what she was trying to accomplish. She even wore Durin blue. Dwalin cursed himself as he climbed the steps, trying to be as silent as Nori. He probably would have been found out, had Eira not been crying so hard, so loud. She had some cloak obscuring her dress and her knife was placed on the ground next to her. Her shoulders and back shook as she sobbed heavily.

It was a fresh dagger in his heart as he heard his love cry. He took a breath, steeled himself, and said, “Eira.”

Instantly, she stopped crying. She froze for a moment, then sniffled a bit. It took a moment, but when Eira turned around, the guilt overwhelmed him anew. Her hair was a mess, her face was a mess, her make-up was a mess. All because of him. She rubbed at her cheeks then glared at him. “I would  _ appreciate _ a moment alone, Master Dwalin,” she spat out. “I have no interest in hearing your comments on my affections for you. Perhaps you should seek our Balfred.”

Dwalin’s lips pulled back into a snarl, which immediately disappeared when Eira flinched and looked away. “Eira,” he repeated. “I beg of you—please let me speak, let me explain myself. I just want to explain and, if you never want to see me after, I will never see you.” He hesitated, then added, “Please.”

Eira’s angry expression melted into a curious one. She bit her lip for a moment, then straightened up as if forcing herself to become Eira, Head Guard, not Eira, heartbroken woman.

She nodded and Dwalin couldn’t help the relieved exhale that escaped him. He took another breath and stepped closer, hoping that Eira would be able to read the honesty that was burning in his eyes. “Eira, I love you. I may have loved you since you first threw your shield at Azog’s head, I may have loved you since you withstood him when hundreds others were unable to, I may have loved you when you nearly sacrificed yourself to help end the Battle. But I certainly loved you that first night in the tent in the Desolation, I certainly loved you when you became head of the Guard, I certainly loved you the first time you were in Erebor, I certainly loved you when we first shared a meal together, a true meal.

“I love you for your strength, your determination, your hope, and your courage. I love you because you are kind and generous and caring. I love you because you know the name of every citizen in Dale and quite a few of those in Erebor. I love you because you will spend time helping train every member of the guard, even ones who are not worthy of it. I love you because you can face off against Thranduil, and  _ win _ . I love you because of the light that shines in every inch of you.

“I never thought you could love me. I knew that you liked me, admired me, respected me. But I never thought you would look upon me the same way I look upon you. I am too old, too scarred, too much a Dwarf and not the prince you are deserving of. I believed that and understood it and was more than content for you to be in my life as a friend. If you could be happy, I would be happy, regardless of whether or not you and I were together, though I did hope for it, dream of it, desire it more than I desired you.

“When I gave you the knife, I truly meant it as a gift. I would never give something so small as a knife to you when you should be crowned in the finest and brightest gems available. I gave it to you as a gift of protection and companionship—if  _ I _ could not protect you, perhaps the knife could and if  _ I _ could not stay by your side, perhaps the knife could. It was selfish of me, maybe, but I—”

Eira cut him off by throwing herself at Dwalin, kissing him so hard, he may have a cut on his lip. He didn’t complain, though, and kissed her back as passionately as he could; he didn’t have the experience that his brother did, perhaps, but he knew how to pleasure a woman. Eira made a noise of happiness and reached up to steady herself by reaching up to thread her fingers through his beard to touch his cheeks. Dwalin moaned as she lightly pulled on his facial hair and Eira ( _ the minx _ !) slipped her tongue into his mouth.

It was just for a moment, though, because Dwalin (and his fragile, weak, mortal body) had to break the kiss, gulping in air that smelled like Eira’s perfume once again.

“What—what was tha—that?” he panted, resting his forehead against hers.

“I couldn’t bear to have you berate yourself like that anymore, not when you love me and I love you and I could kiss you,” she said, breathing just as heavily as him. “I didn’t—you’re not—I love you. I love you and I don’t care about your, your insecurities, I want you to know that it doesn’t matter, not to me. So, I figured a kiss would be the best thing to stop your stream of stupidity.” She pulled back slightly and her reddened lips were in a smirk as she asked, “Did it work?”

Dwalin laughed lowly. “Did it work? I don’t know, does the sun rise in the east and set in the west? Does rain fall from the sky? Does Thorin hate formalities? Do I love you? And do you love me?” He kissed her again, short and forceful and meaningful. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes a thousand times.”

She kissed him again and Dwalin could feel her smile before she pulled away. “I’m glad,” she confessed, their foreheads resting against each other again.

They stayed like that for a while longer. Then Dwalin pulled away from her entirely, guilt strangling him. “Eira,” he said, regret drowning in his words. “I’m so sorry for what I made you feel and endure and suffer through and say. I should have realized that you loved me, like I loved you. I was a simpleton and you were hurt because of it. If there’s anything I can do to make you forgive me, please, tell me.”

Eira looked at him, a confused expression on her face. “I don’t blame you, Dwalin,” she told him, her hands falling from his face. She took his larger and heavily scarred hands in her own and held them tight. “I swear to you, I don’t. I should have said something myself, I should have confirmed or gotten some words from you before believing what I believed. That’s not your fault. I just . . . I was scared. So I said nothing, but I should have. It takes two people working together for a relationship to work.” Dwalin wanted to disagree, but she stood up, letting go of his hands with one last squeeze. “But, worry not!” she exclaimed, taking off the cloak she had taken from a Guard she must have passed and laying it down. “I have a way for you to show your forgiveness,” she added, reaching around the back of her dress to undo the ties as Dwalin watched. The outer layer came off and then, suddenly, she stood in a shift. 

Dwalin stared for a moment, then averted his gaze.

“Eira,” he choked. “I—What are you doing?”

“Tomorrow we are going to clarify things and officially begin our courtship. Our very  _ short _ courtship, mind you. No more than three months or I steal you away and tie you to my bed,” she teased. Dwalin was still looking away, but he could hear the smile in her voice and smiled, despite the situation. “However, tonight . . . tonight, we are free to be together. And no one will think to come here. So, Dwalin, look at me and then take me.”

Dwalin didn’t hesitate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter will be up as soon as possible! But definitely by Thursday night! Pinky promise.


	6. Altar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! What a surprise that I started writing this because real life sucked and I've finished writing this because real life sucks. Crazy.
> 
> I also didn't want to get to spicy since it is rated T, you know? But . . . y'all can imagine, I'm certain. ;)
> 
> Also, this is high-key dedicated to cpmwjune and all of their comments! I loved them so much, so thank you!!

Eira woke up and practically jumped out of bed. The sun was barely up and she doubted that anyone else in the household was awake besides her and maybe a maid. It was fine though, it was perfect, because today was finally the day!

After a year of an accidental courtship, then a beautiful—glorious—perfect— _pleasurable_ night together, then 82 and a half days of a true courtship, and the day was finally here!

Eira looked at the dress that was hanging up and sighed, looking at it again. She never believed that she’d ever get married, not to someone she loved, truly truly loved. But the day was here—she was getting married to the best person she could ever imagine to marry. 

Eira couldn’t help the squeal of excitement, glad for the thick wooden door between herself and everyone else. She knew better than to act like this, most days, but the past almost three months was perfect. Every day, she saw Dwalin. Every day, he gave her a gift. Every day, she gave him a gift. Every day, everyone knew they were together. That they loved each other. Nothing upset her, not the Guard, not training, not the week of heavy storms that practically drowned the both of them when they went to visit each other.

She walked to her small balcony and stepped outside, the early morning fog rolling through Dale. The sun was peeking over the rooftops and, she felt secure enough to sigh, leaning against the balcony with an admittedly dreamy smile.

“Eira?”

Her heart jumped and she looked down to see Dwalin blindfolded, looking in the direction of her room. He had whisper-called up to her and was fidgeting, probably fighting the impulse to rip off the blindfold. Eira couldn’t believe that he was actually there, that he was truly upholding the terms of the contract. The terms that said that they would see each other every day. She was silent for a moment, then said, “Dwalin, what are you doing?”

“You said that we couldn’t see each other the day of the wedding, that it was bad luck. But I wanted to be with you, nonetheless,” he explained, steady as the mountain he was born in.

Eira felt her heart expand in her chest and she sighed. “Thank you, Dwalin,” she called down. She couldn’t believe that he had actually shown up. Even though they said that they would meet up the morning of . . . that he actually showed up did nothing but further convince her how perfect he was. Then she smiled, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “Do you want to take off the blindfold? I can turn around, if that makes it better for you.”

“Ye—No, no, I don’t need to,” he said, lying a bit.

Eira rolled her eye and turned around. “I’ve turned around,” she called out to him. “Take off your blindfold before you work yourself into a panic.”

She smiled at the sight of the morning light catching the glass sewn onto her dress. Dwalin had pushed for real diamonds but it was an unnecessary expense that Eira couldn’t abide by. It was a dress she would wear just once and it made no sense for it to be too luxurious. Besides, he had spent a truly unthinkable amount on different gifts for her, aware of the price even as he insisted he wanted her handmade gifts more than anything else. One more dress wouldn’t make a difference, not really. And she had plenty of pretty dresses for her to wear . . . and him to take off.

She giggled a little to herself, uncaring that Dwalin heard.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, gruff as always. 

“Nothing, sweetheart,” she said, wishing she could see how he frowned but blushed at the same time. She had tried a variety of different endearments before settling on that one—it got him flustered more so than anything else. And it was fun to see him flustered, to see his external appearance reflect her internal feelings. “Is your blindfold off?”

There was a pause, then he said, “Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she replied.

For a while, they were like that. Silent and at peace, happy to be in each other’s presence. It was almost as if they were already married. With the early morning light, the birdsong, and the occasional breeze going through, Eira almost felt as though she was dreaming. There was a second of panic, then she blurted out, “I’m awake, right? You’re awake? This is happening?”

“Yes, this is happening,” Dwalin said. “I felt the same way this morning,” he admitted. “I don’t think I slept more than two, maybe three hours.”

Eira smiled and blushed in spite of herself. “I had to take something last night to actually go to sleep,” she confided in him.

They both laughed, Eira reaching up to tug at a lock of hair. It was a relief to hear how Dwalin was worried as well. Well, not worried but nervous, maybe. Which was stupid! Eira would never leave him, even if he could be a bit thick-skulled sometimes. It was painful to imagine, but she was confident that if one of them were to leave the other, it was probably because they were de—

Eira cut off her line of thought and shook her head.

“Eira, are you—what are you doing?” 

Sigrid stood in the doorway, prepared to help her get ready. She was wearing her Mom face, something that had little Hilda stopping mid-tantrum already. Eira flushed and took a nervous step back, then remembered herself, standing upright. “Nothing, just out here, enjoying conversation,” she said.

“Eira, who’s there?”

“It’s Sigrid,” she whisper-yelled down to Dwalin from the corner of her mouth, hoping Sigrid wouldn’t notice.

But Sigrid did and she stormed over to the small balcony. “Dw—Master Dwalin!” she snapped. “What are you doing here? Men are not allowed to see the bride the day of the wedding. You know this, I am sure.”

“We had decided—”

“I do not care,” Sigrid interrupted. “You will leave and prepare yourself for the ceremony just as Eira will be getting ready. We will see you in a few hours, thank you, sir.”

Dwalin grumbled but acquiesced. It always was funny to her; people thought that Dwalin was unlikeable, surly, churlish but deep down . . . he was softer than a freshly baked roll. He said goodbye to Eira and she to him, smiling all the while.

With that Sigrid dragged Eira inside, closing the doors to the balcony firmly. She pushed Eira down onto the chair and then started to brush her hair. Eira looked at herself in the mirror and sighed, knowing that later today Dwalin would braid her hair. Then, later tonight, he’d take out the braid and then he’d—

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Sigrid warned.

Eira saw her rosy cheeks and flushed even more. “I don’t know what you're talking about, she said, raising her chin imperiously.

“Have you forgotten that I’m married?” Sigrid asked. “I know what happens on a wedding night, Eira.”

Eira bit her lip and looked away, trying to hide her smile. Sigrid knew what happened that night in the Eastern Tower and, blushing, the both of them had compared experience and given each other tips. Eira, personally, was an interesting combination of fascinated and flustered. It was good though, it was something she imagined that her own—

“Do you miss her?”

Sigrid, being her closest friend, didn’t have to ask. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But not in a normal way.” Sigrid focused on her hair, her brow furrowed and lips pursed. It took her a while to find the words—unsurprising since neither of them ever talked about their mothers. But when she did speak . . . Sigrid said, “I miss what she could have been, what I could have been without her gone. But most days, I . . . don’t. I know that it’s bad, that I should but, how can I? How can I obsess over here when I know that she wouldn’t have even wanted me to? I miss her and love her but . . . I can’t let it define me. If Father and Bain don’t, neither can I.”

Eira nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t miss what she became,” she admitted, remembering how her mother would lie around all day, hiding inside her own head as her father grew worse. “I don’t miss that. But . . . I miss what she could have been, I suppose. I bet that if she was here, now, she’d be okay. And we could be a family.” Eira looked down, imagining a life where it was her mother brushing her hair right now, getting her ready for her wedding, and not her closest friend. That her mother helped her plan and prepare her wedding, giving careful threats to Dwalin, instead of Bard. “But she isn’t . . . and I can’t let that define me,” she echoed.

Sigrid put her hand on Eira’s shoulder and smiled at her in the mirror, Eira copied her friend and squeezed the hand.

“Alright, let’s stop crying and focus on the task at hand!” Sigrid declared, becoming the authoritative Princesses that Eira knew and loved.

“Let’s do it,” Eira agreed, becoming the competent Head Guard that she had spent over the last two years being. 

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. Even though Eira would have her hair braided by Dwalin, so that he could give her his bead, she still wanted her hair to be cleaned, oiled, and perfumed. She had been growing her hair out and, when the maids had finished drying and scenting it, it was a palm’s width above her ass. Eira knew that Dwalin loved her hair and she knew that it would drive him _mad_ later today. As would her skin, soft and lotioned, and her expensive lacey underthings, secretly made by Dori. Getting measured for them was a truly embarrassing experience, but Sigrid swore it would drive him crazy.

By the time the mid-morning bells were ringing, and people were starting to make their way to the Great Hall, Eira was laced up in her dress, spinning and staring at herself in the wide mirror a maid brought in. It looked stunning; she looked like a goddess in it, as if stars had left the sky to rest on her dress. The fabric was white and just as smooth as she imagined it would be, years ago when she was a child. It danced and twirled around her ankles, the whisper of silk teasing her.

She bit her lip and looked at Sigrid who stood beside her, wearing a proud expression. “It’s perfect,” she said.

“Not quite!” Clara said, coming into the edge of her vision with a wooden box.

“This is one last gift from Dwalin,” Tilda exclaimed, grinning.

She looked between the two girls who were wearing matching expressions of excitement and happiness. Then looking at Sigrid who nodded at Eira with a more tamed version of Tilda’s smile. Eira sighed and took the box, opening it up without ruining her gown. Then she gasped.

Laying on a cushion was a small circlet. It was made of a pale gold ( _white gold,_ Dwalin corrected her, inside her head) and was designed to look like a crown of flowers intertwined with each other. At a closer look, the flowers were tiny pink roses, each with a pale pink gemstone. She gasped, soft and wet, when she remembered that pink roses meant everlasting love. Eira picked it up and held it in the palms of her hands, examining every angle of it. Then, turning back to the mirror, she put it on. For a moment, she looked like she was a princess. After a moment, she saw her eye patch and the illusion was shattered ever so slightly. But it was okay, her eye patch. It was hers and before it was hers, it was a gift from Dwalin. An eye patch of the purest, whitest silk that Eira had ever seen; she would have bet good money that even clouds weren’t as white as the eye patch.

Looking at herself, she couldn’t help but cry a little. With everything she was wearing, it was as if Dwalin had pulled together bits and pieces of the sky to dress her in: her star-studded gown, her early morning sunshine tiara, her cloud white eye patch, her light sapphire studs in her ears. She looked like a Valar.

Eira wiped away her tears carefully and turned to see her sister and the princesses. She smiled at them. “Thank you,” she said, “for all your help. I love you all.”

Clara and Tilda were practically vibrating from repressing the hugs they clearly wanted to give her. But for the past few days, Sigrid had drilled into them the importance of Eira’s dress being perfect and unruined, so they were forbidden from touching it, even to touch Eira. And, so far, they were doing a great job. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Sigrid said, beaming at her. “Now, let’s go. We can’t be late to your big day.”

Eira nodded, swallowing around the lump in her throat. As she left the royal home, Eira grew calmer and calmer. Apparently, people got nervous on their wedding day—Sigrid certainly had. Her friend clutched her hand so hard, the scar from her nails were still visible on the backs of Eira’s hands.

But Eira . . . wasn’t. She was calmer than she had been in a long time, at peace in a way that rarely happened anymore. The last time it happened was her first name day since her friendship with Dwalin started. He had taken her into some caves in the heart of Erebor and brought a meal with him. She hadn’t expected anything that night, no love confession, no proposal, nothing. Just a night with someone she cared for dearly and she received that.

When she arrived at the Great Hall, there was a crowd outside, waiting for her. It was a mix of Dwarrow and Dalemen, with a few elves from the Greenwood, and they were all waiting for her. She looked at Sigrid who seemed pleasantly surprised by the audience. They shared a shrug and Eira stepped out of the carriage, immediately flushing when everyone began to cheer and scream compliments to her. Sigrid exited the carriage and linked her arm with Eira’s blind side and waved to the crowd for a moment before walking with her to the entrance.

When they got in the Hall, Eira couldn’t help but glare at the temporary screen that was placed a few feet from the entrance. It was another preventative measure to make sure the women and men involved in the ceremony didn’t see each other before the bride reached the altar, thus avoiding any bad luck they might have in their relationship.

Both Eira and Dwalin had argued against it, but Sigrid insisted and, well, Eira couldn’t deny her friend.

Try as she might, Eira couldn’t see through the screen. It was pretty enough, for an annoying piece of shit barrier that separated her from Dwalin. There was a field of flowers painted on the wood and even a lake, with a familiar mountain looming in the background.

“You can’t set it on fire,” Sigrid scolded, fixing her hair. “So stop trying.”

Eira huffed and shuffled her feet. “Can we get this started? I want to see Dwalin again!” she snapped, upset it was taking so long. If her children ever wanted to get married, she’d approve of a small, quick ceremony that took no more than an hour, so that the happy couple could be together. Not this long, drawn-out, exaggerated, ridiculous performance.

“Stop it,” Sigrid scolded. “In a moment, the music will start and you will see him. Just . . . wait, Eira. Gods below.”

Eira stopped fidgeting, feeling a pang of guilt before the anticipation overwhelmed her. In a moment, the music would start and then the girls would walk ahead, through flower petals on the ground for her to walk on.

Then Sigrid would go.

Then it would be Eira’s turn.

She’d walk down the aisle to appreciative murmurs and looks. She’d get close enough to see Dwalin’s face—his eyes would be shining but his jaw wouldn’t be on the floor, he already knew how beautiful she looked, whether she had just finished a long day of training or she was dressed up for an event. He would be wearing Durin blue and some burgundy, his line’s preferred color, and his beard would remain unbraided. He would have her bead ready and two necklaces with matching rings. They couldn’t wear their rings on their fingers, so around their necks was a good alternative. As it was Bard presiding over the ceremony, he would tell Dwalin when he should braid Eira’s hair, when they should put on each other’s necklaces, and when they should kiss.

The ceremony would end, they would go to the feast, and, after a good few hours, they would retire to a small cottage on the shores of the Lake. They’d spend the next few days there before returning to their duties.

In a moment, Eira would be with the man she loved forever and ever.

She took a deep breath.

And when she let it out, the music was already starting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks one last time for all the comments and kudos! I really appreciate them and they make me smile! :) :) :)

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been sitting in my drive for a while and I feel very unaccomplished irl so I thought that maybe I'd dig this out, refurbish it, and get some nice comments and feedback, maybe?
> 
> Next update will be Wednesday (02/17) evening around 10 EST!


End file.
